It's truly said the Muses will not speak
To those who will not listen — that's to say
The ones who cannot trouble to attend,
Who're mindful only of the mindless World.
It used to be a trope, back years ago,
Romantic poets sighing would bemoan
The loss of their inspired poetic gifts
That left them mumbling prose like mortal men.
So maybe this is just what poets do,
To grouse when they have nothing else to say,
To strut and preen and pose like mannequins
And puff their nothings full of empty wind.
If that's, then, all it takes, why every dog
Can call himself a poet — even I!
Sent from my iPhone
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